


Enchantment

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, First Kiss, M/M, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2233950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire and Enjolras, modern AU, first kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enchantment

 “What are you doing, Grantaire?” Enjolras' voice is terse as he enters the Musain, and Grantaire glances to him with interest. Enjolras is ruffled, his coat having been thrown on over a creased shirt, a twisted tie. Someone had been in a hurry to leave this morning.

“I'm making sweet, passionate love with two Argentinian ballet dancers, Enjolras. Can't you see that?” Grantaire responds dryly, amused enough. He continues to paint the back wall in a light blue.

“Does your mind ever stray from women?” Enjolras tuts, disapproving.

“Didn't say they were _female_ ballet dancers. Your misogyny is showing in your sexist, binarist assumptions, Enjolras.” Grantaire sing-songs at him. That offends Enjolras properly, and he huffs, pressing his lips tightly together and flushing red as he drops his coat aside. Grantaire knows which words to use when he wants to make Enjolras legitimately upset; Enjolras likes to think he lacks _all_ understanding of the issue.

Silly man.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks again, more dully but more politely too.

“Painting the back wall. Louison asked sweetly that I might do so: I readily acquiesced.” He hears Enjolras mutter something about Grantaire lacking _work_ to do, and Grantaire is gracious enough not to snap at him for it.

He is beautiful. He is illuminated, passionate, educated and political: Enjolras is a fire untempered. He is the reason Grantaire paints, these days, having relit the candle Grantaire had allowed to be doused so many years ago.

Enjolras is an angel, burning with God's light and fury, and Grantaire is devoted. His devotion remains always: Enjolras despises him.

“The paint on the walls. It smells.”

“Open a window.”

“It's too thick a scent to be helped by one open window.”

“Open two, then.”

“Must you always _argue_?”

“Must you simply complain as you do nothing to fix the issues around you?” Enjolras' nostrils flare, and his lip curls. Grantaire has struck a nerve, and he is as elated as he might be striking gold in a mine.

“I do _not_ merely complain, Grantaire-”

“Enjolras!” Grantaire yells, and Enjolras recoils, his eyes widening, his lips parting in a cartoonish expression of surprise. Grantaire has never shouted at him before, even in jest. “ _Please_. Open the windows before you begin my dressing down.” Enjolras lets out a growl of frustration, but he stomps across the room to throw the windows open all the same.

“I do not merely complain, Grantaire. It is you that does nothing,” Grantaire thinks of the four cats he's adopted from the local shelter this year. “and just _complains!_ ” Grantaire thinks of self defence classes he and Bahorel had given last month, and of the soup kitchen they assist at weekly, and how the local shelters will call one of them if they need assistance moving furniture or fixing broken articles. “What do you do of value?”

“Nothing at all.” Grantaire says, and in doing so continues the deception he has cultivated since meeting the man. He deserves nought of the other's friendship: some part of him, twisted and gnarled ( _reminds him of his father_ ) delights in Enjolras' venom.

“Then why do you come?”

“To delight in your arse on the occasions you bend over.” A heady flush comes to Enjolras' cheeks, and he stares at Grantaire, uncertain. He no longer looks angry: he seems upset. “Sorry.” Grantaire says, after a pause, and he turns back to the wall. He's nearly done putting on the undercoat, after all. “I mean nothing by it.”

Enjolras is silent for a time. Grantaire hears papers and books come from his bag to be laid neatly out on his table. The furniture in the back room is mismatched and cobbled together, but Enjolras' favourite is a wide, square table with its colours painted blue, red and white and a printed 1870s map of France on its surface, covered over with glass.

It's ugly. Grantaire had fashioned it together in a weekend, and when Enjolras had asked where it had come from he'd shrugged and said it was ten euros in a second hand store on the outskirts of the city.

Enjolras begins furiously texting someone, his brow furrowed, and Grantaire lets him be.

He finishes up, puts the last of the paint on the wall, and puts his brush to soak, capping the paint in order to keep the remnants in the can. There's no sense at all in wasting it, after all – Grantaire isn't a man tended to such things.

Life is pointless, but it needn't be wasteful.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras is suddenly close to him, looking up at Grantaire with an urgency that makes Grantaire _very_ uncomfortable. “Do you really look at my backside?”

“Uh- well, yeah, I mean- I can stop? I look at everyone's backsides.” Grantaire says, uncertainly.

“Oh. There is nothing significant about my own?”

“Well, it's _nice_.”

“It is nice?” Enjolras asks him, and Grantaire gives a slow nod, wondering if this is some sort of trap. Enjolras' lips part, and he looks at Grantaire's lips for a few moments, significantly. Does he want Grantaire to _kiss_ him? Enjolras?

There's a pause, awkward, until Enjolras grabs Grantaire's hands and pulls them forwards, downwards to settle on his hips. He inhales as Grantaire stares at him for a few moments, and Grantaire lets out a quiet groan as Enjolras pushes Grantaire's hands from Enjolras' hips to his arse.

“Is it nice, uh, like this?”

“Were you texting Courfeyrac to ask him how to do this just now?” Grantaire blurts out, and Enjolras flushes.

“Yes. Jehan proved unhelpful.”

“He's bad at seduction.” Grantaire says, as if to explain whatever disturbing bedroom invitation, photograph of phallic cactus, or line of Hebrew poetry that Jehan had probably sent him.

“He's had many sexual partners.” Enjolras says, sounding somewhat perplexed. Grantaire leans closer, leans down a little, so that his lips are just a little away from Enjolras'. This has to be a dream. It _must_ be a dream. Enjolras smells good.

“That's reliant on his pretty face and terrifying aura as opposed to his seductive skills.” Grantaire murmurs against Enjolras' cherry lips.

“Do you think Jehan has a terrifying aura?”

“Don't you?”

“He is an innocent.” Grantaire scoffs, and his response is sharp and rapid.

“Of some kind.” Enjolras' pretty brow furrows once again: confusion.

“What does that m-” Enjolras is cut off because Grantaire stops holding back: he kisses the other man hard, presses everything into the kiss because he is undeserving, and it will likely happen only once. With that, Enjolras falls against him, so they are chest to chest, and he looks up at Grantaire, and he looks _awed._

For Enjolras to look at Grantaire like that is completely obscene. It's wrong. It's strange.

Grantaire's heart is beating so _hard_ in his chest.

“I can't believe that you can charm old ladies into voting for parties they don't agree with, but you had to text Courfeyrac to ask how to get me to put my hands on your butt.” Grantaire murmurs, and Enjolras laughs: the sound is like bells.

“He's going to be a dick about this.” Enjolras says seriously. Grantaire's hands are still on the curve of his ass: Grantaire squeezes, and he is delighted, surprised, _intoxicated_ ,by the soft noise Enjolras lets out. “I like this proximity.”

“Good. Me too.” Grantaire says. “Makes it easier for me to disagree with you. You know, at short distance.”

“Face to face.”

“Directly.”

“Grantaire, please kiss me again.” Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

“Why don't _you_ kiss _me_?” There is an extensive pause. If Grantaire wasn't absolutely certain Enjolras would be furious enough to never let Grantaire touch him again, he would make a crack about Napoleon.

“You are too tall.”

“You're too short, you mean.” Enjolras pulls him down, roughly, by his collar, and his kiss contains the wrath of all the Gods and then some. Grantaire is enchanted.

It _must_ be a dream, but while it lasts? Grantaire minds not a jot.


End file.
